


helios: the work of heart

by fallingseasons



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Barebacking, Body Worship, M/M, Romance, Slice of Life, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 05:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17380463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingseasons/pseuds/fallingseasons
Summary: where wonwoo is a struggling artist and finishes creating his latest art, carved out of stone and into his liking.In the morning, he finds the most unusual thing: his masterpiece— in human flesh-and-blood—straight out of his mind.





	helios: the work of heart

**Author's Note:**

> the only time I don't bring angst to the table is when I bring top!wonwoo :-)
> 
> enjoy!

 

 

The weight of the world rests heavily upon Wonwoo’s back as he works tirelessly into the early morning, striking a hammer on the chisel and carving the shape of a body out of stone. The dimness of the room resembles the sky that is pitch black from outside the window. The ceiling lamp hangs above, serving as the only source of light that keeps the room visible, accompanying him inside his art studio. This doesn’t bother him, he doesn't remember the last time he had a good amount of sleep anyway. He'd gotten used to the restlessness, sparing only an hour or two to close his eyes while thoughts stay afloat in the surface between imaginary and reality. It's been that way for quite a while, that he'd forgotten what dreams were like and what they meant to him.

Wonwoo finishes the finer details of the sculpture, chipping away its excess. The tool that weighs in his hand grows heavier and heavier, exhaustion catching up to him once he drags the chisel to the edge of the sculpture's jaw, tearing it downwards as the unwanted fragments of stone fall on the ground. He switches his tool then, using the coarse texture of sandpaper to sand the sculpture until it becomes smooth. Once that’s done, he leaves the paper on top of the table next to him, putting them aside and stepping back to admire his creation.

The feeling of accomplishment Wonwoo gets can only be surreal. Sleepless and ambitious, he’d spent the summer days and nights inside the art studio, disconnected from life. He'd meticulously planned his projects for months, sculpting art after art in preparation for this year’s upcoming art fair. Being invited as one of the exhibitors for the prestigious event comes only once—twice, in his case—and the pressure to do more, to _be_ more, keeps him motivated and standing clumsily on his feet.

A tired smile paints across his face, overwhelmed with a great sense of pride and fulfillment seeing his latest work transformed into something almost mistakenly human.

Wonwoo nears the naked model, reaching up to brush the accumulated dust off its right shoulder, tracing his hand down its form to the physique of a muscled arm. He lifts another hand to inspect the opposite shoulder and follows the outline of its body in the same manner before his hand roams all the way up to the curve of its head. The sculpture shows a face, except the smaller details have been intentionally left out, hidden in thoughts he keeps safe—his own little secret.

Stone, wood, metal—the attempts he’d made to carve people out of material things had been innumerable, but never had he finished a work of art with his bare hands such as the one in front of him, standing six-foot tall and so beautifully divine. Where the carved stone remains cool under the touch of his nimble fingers, there is a warmth that lies present in his heart.

Two years had been enough time for the artist to build a certain bond with the sculpture that was different from all the other art he'd created. This particular stone is his special project; one that he’d poured amounts of passion and dedication to.

It's a strange feeling, Wonwoo thinks, to love someone he's never even met.

Wonwoo caves in, stepping up to the sculpture’s base foundation with arms that loop around the stone figure, leaning forward such that its head presses against his own. He holds his legs steady as he pulls his creation close and into his embrace.

The stone remains cold, unliving. It’s moments like this when hints of loneliness finally creep into his skin in search for validation. His eyes fall shut, heavy from lack of rest. A tired sigh escapes his lips as the calmness of his voice whispers deep longing, the words kept inside hushed wishes across the thin air.

“Please be real."

And so very gently, Wonwoo falls into a state between dreams and consciousness.

 

 

Cold hard cement wakes him. He’s lying on the ground inside the studio and under the blazing heat of the sun, drops of sunlight drawing lines across his skin.

It’s nothing new when Wonwoo finds himself alone, unaware of the time and seeking comfort in the unfinished art pieces at the corner of the room. And today, a sudden ache appears in his chest the moment he notices that something is missing; when the studio looks much emptier than usual.

He stands on his feet as his eyes scan the room, realizing the stone sculpture that had been in his arms last night is now out of sight. Confusion quietly dawns on him at the impossibility of something like this to happen. He searches for the art in every part of the room—behind the easel, next to the shelves, under the table—looking at unthinkable places where he knows the sculpture wouldn’t be able to reach.

_Nothing._

His head falls to his hands, the artist feeling helpless and in panic. And from where he stands in the center of the room, he finally notices the door of his studio left open—day peeking from outside—with his heart beating frantically. He hesitantly walks towards it, fear and curiosity building inside of him with each step that he takes. The sky is bright once Wonwoo makes it out of the door and into the garden, the sun shining down on him and bringing warmth to his body. And yet, he doesn’t feel its presence; there’s something else that he discovers that quickly captures his attention.

Crawling on the grass is an unidentified body; bare back turned to him with arms and legs struggling to get up, only to fall back to the ground.

Alarmed and still confused, Wonwoo rushes towards the man, grabbing and lifting his elbows to help him on his feet. He bends down and plants his feet on the grass with his hands, making sure he stands properly. He doesn’t have a clue to who this person is, he doesn’t even know how he got here, or why he was naked inside his yard, but there’s something about how his feet appears—the shape and feel of it—that strikes a sense of familiarity he can’t quite understand.

Slowly, _slowly_ , he looks up to take in the length of the man’s legs and the navel on his stomach, the curve of his torso, and the lean muscles on his biceps. Wonwoo observes the movement of his adam’s apple that bobs up and down showing fright, wondering if he should be more terrified.

And that’s when Wonwoo recognizes him—the slope of his jaw, straight nose with lips carved into tan skin that shines a warm gold beneath the sun.

It’s the eyes that speak to him the most; the dark irises that tell him just exactly who he is.

_I am your masterpiece._

 

“Can you see him?”

When Wonwoo had answered the door to meet his friend, he’d intended to ask him the first question in mind just to confirm he hadn't turned completely insane.

“If that’s your way of asking if my vision is still intact, then yes, I can see him very well thanks.” Soonyoung had answered, walking past him to meet the human sculpture inside his tiny abode.

He had hoped that by the time he called Soonyoung to ask for help and come to his place, he would find the answers that he needed. Instead, they remain just as baffled as the human sculpture that sits next to his maker on the couch with his feet on top, looking curiously back at them and wearing a bathrobe that’d been quickly draped over his bare shoulders.

Soonyoung paces from left to right, tapping a pointing finger to his chin as if he were thinking.

“So let me get this straight,” he begins, “You’re saying you finished a sculpture last night, fell asleep, then woke up this morning and found this sculpture actually _alive_ in your garden?”

Wonwoo frowns. “You don’t have to make it sound so bizarre.”

“ _Bizarre_?” Soonyoung mocks playfully. “Oh, no, this definitely isn’t bizarre. It’s not crazy at all.”

“Yet you still came all the way here to see what the fuss is about.”

“It's not hard to believe someone is naked in someone else's yard. In fact, I think anyone in this town could appear naked in anyone’s yard. Don’t you?”

Wonwoo sneaks another glance at the man that gazes around his living room, clueless.

“Not like this." He defends quietly, "Not like how I saw him outside.”

Soonyoung stops pacing then, leaning on one leg as he stands in front of the two figures on Wonwoo’s sofa. “Only you didn't see what actually happened. How do you think he got here? Did he fall from the sky? Did you snap a finger?"

He remembers the way he and the sculpture's frail eyes met at the garden, and how uncertain they were of his existence. Soonyoung’s questions seem as endless as his own, but Wonwoo knows his intentions of understanding what had happened.

The only answer to Soonyoung’s questions that Wonwoo could answer would be the way the human sculpture had come to him— _Unknowingly. Unexpectedly. Unworldly._

"If there's anything I'm sure of it's—"

"That this person is your sculpture," Soonyoung finishes, arms crossed over his chest, “And that your sculpture just suddenly turned into the human sitting on your couch?"

"You know what? Forget it," Wonwoo waves dismissively, "It does sound crazy."

"Look, Won. It's not that I don't believe you. I’m trying to see where you’re coming from, but how are you even sure that this person is the sculpture you created?"

The longer he stares at the human sculpture next to him, the more he thinks that it's the way the sun hits the sculpture's back and the light casts perfectly the details on his facade.

“It’s that face," Wonwoo confesses, eyes not looking away from the sculpture, "I imagined it in my head."

"You said your sculpture didn't have a face when you made it."

“It's not supposed to,” he emphasizes before turning to Soonyoung, “But now, I guess it does. I don’t know how to explain it, Soon, but I made him up—his face, his body.."

"Speaking of which,” Soonyoung interrupts, taking a step towards the pair to say, "Let me see it."

Wonwoo’s face changes then, contorting into mild confusion. “What?"

“Come on,” he urges, “I need to believe if this person is who you think he is.”

If Soonyoung hadn’t been looking at him with a face so strangely calm, he wouldn’t have believed him.

“And where are you going with this?” Wonwoo asks suspiciously.

“Where do you think?” he answers back, “You want to prove your point, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but—"

"Then let me see what you made."

Wonwoo doesn't know what to answer to that, so he stands from the couch, defenseless, then tugs on the robe from its sleeve so as the human sculpture stands. He doesn't say anything else, much less detests. As soon as the man is standing upright, he braces his hands on the robe's tie, slowly dismantling it before revealing his creation.

Soonyoung says nothing at first. He's quiet and observant as his eyes roam up and down the sculpture's tan body. Wonwoo feels uncomfortable somehow, like he was the one that had been stripped bare in front of his friend, like he'd divulged one of his deepest darkest secrets.

"Well," Soonyoung pauses for a moment as his eyes continue to scan his body, clicking his tongue right before he says, "He definitely isn't _photoshopped_.”

Wonwoo pretends not to hear him, covering the man's body once again and pushing his shoulder so as to sit back down on the couch.

"See? That wasn't so bad, was it? You don't need to worry your pretty little ass about me breaking the golden rule."

"What rule?" He asks.

Soonyoung thinks on his own, only answering with a shrug and a teasing glint in his eyes.

“The rule,” He exaggerates, “ _Don’t touch the art,_ was it? Is that why you won’t let me come near him? Jealous already?"

Wonwoo takes a square pillow from the couch and sends it flying towards his direction.

“But anyway, I’ve got to hand it to you, man. You really do have a fucking eye for one," Soonyoung praises him. “Hey, what do you think Minghao’s going to say about this?"

 

Wonwoo wouldn’t say he’d completely forgotten about the art fair, but it’s one of the things that slipped his mind. Ironically, he’s too occupied with the art piece inside his living room, sitting next to him on the couch doing absolutely nothing. He doesn't stop looking at him, even when Soonyoung had already left. The situation he’s in right now just doesn’t sink in. He’s still trying to believe that something—someone—like this just suddenly _exists_.

He allows his thoughts to wander free—from the sculpture's head down to the shape of his body, across his arms and to where the shoulder connects. His searching eyes trace his outline the same way he'd first sketched him during old nights under the moon's watch, and memorized every inch where he'd once marked with his pencil.

 _Slowly but surely_ , Wonwoo had thought, _and I will bring you to life._

From a fair distance, people would have thought he was a statue. He should have been precisely that. A small patch of cocoa skin on his chest peeks out from his robe. It matches the color of his eyes staring back at him in wonder, as if he was deciphering things on his own, in the same way he was discovering him.

"How are you real?" Wonwoo asks—more to himself than to the human sculpture.

He doesn't talk, he hasn’t since this morning, but his eyes seem to share volumes, emotions he couldn’t communicate in words but is easy for Wonwoo to feel.

He swallows a lump that forms in his throat and almost forgets to breathe. He subtly pinches himself to check if this could still be a dream, but the pain shoots him wide-awake and because of it, he lets out a faint cry. The human sculpture reacts to this, tilting his head to one side and questioning him with raised eyebrows.

Wonwoo becomes frantic. Not knowing what to do at the moment, his thoughts drift back to the art fair and to the art collection he needs to complete. He gets up then, standing hurriedly on his feet with the human sculpture following each movement with his eyes. In a rush, he grabs a coat from the clothes rack by the door before gripping the knob, and as he slips a foot between the doorway he turns back to face the human sculpture inside his house. He blinks.

It feels odd to be talking to someone he'd supposedly created out of stone, but even in this kind of universe, he still had manners.

"Don't, uh," Wonwoo pauses, thinking of more appropriate words before he continues to say, "Don't move.”

 

 

Anonymous

Ivory Sculpture

**Galatea**

2005

 

Wonwoo reads the name at the bottom print of the statue. He doesn’t know the artist that had sculpted it, but he would be lying if he said that he isn’t envious to see his work situated at the most accessible part of the gallery. The statue stands at the center carved in ivory, naked with long braided hair that reaches her breasts. She is unabashed, _beautiful_. It's the kind of art that captivates his soul, and for a moment a thought comes to mind about whether people thinks the same when they look at his own art.

Maybe they did, for a time. Two years ago to be exact. He remembers standing inside this same gallery next to his own art, neverending praises and applauses being sent his way the moment people have a glimpse of his creation. Briefly, he wonders what happened to them now. Had someone bought his art? Were they kept away in a stock room now that it was old and insignificant?

It's not the attention that Wonwoo craves. He knows this for sure. It's not even the fame or the fortune either, although he doesn't have very much of it. More than anything else, it's knowing that he was doing the right thing, knowing that people saw him, and wanted him to know that there is a place for him, wherever. It’s the assurance that one way or another, he would leave a mark in the world.

“Have you heard the story?”

Minghao steps next to Wonwoo, standing with his hands in his pockets and Galatea in front of them.

“A greek myth actually,” he continues, “There was a sculptor, Pygmalion, who carved a woman out of ivory. She was so beautiful and realistic looking, that he couldn’t help but fall in love with her. Can you believe? So, he kissed it, and he found that her lips were warm. It turned out that Aphrodite had granted his wish for a bride in the ivory’s living likeness.”

“Huh,” Wonwoo quips nonchalantly, listening to the story that doesn’t seem too far from reality.

“I know. Sounds kind of fucked up if you ask me.”

“I can imagine.” Wonwoo only hopes that he doesn’t catch the sarcasm in his voice.

“What brings you here, Wonwoo?” The gallery owner asks, curious. “Do you want to move somewhere else to talk?”

Wonwoo nods, a curt smile flashing on his lips.

“Sure.”

 

They sit on a bench across from one of the acrylic paintings hanging on the wall. A few onlookers pass by them, walking from one painting to another to appreciate the art.

“So, _HeArt In The Park_ , huh?” Minghao mentions, crossing his legs and resting his closed hands on top of his knees beside him, "We’ve got about three months left until the exhibit. It’s a great line up as well—Lots of old and new exhibitors will be joining, so it’s going to be exciting.”

“Definitely.” Wonwoo agrees.

“I read your application, by the way,” he adds, teasingly nudging him with his elbow, “Finally had time to browse through it. You’ve always been one heck of a talent, Wonwoo. It’s such a waste you couldn’t make it in time last year, you would have been the talk of the town.”

The statement throws him off a bit. It stings, but he thanks him anyway.

"Thank you," Wonwoo manages to say.

It was true; life had been hard for Wonwoo that year. He was overworked, created too many things at the same time but never finished them, and only ended up destroying art worth two weeks of his hard work to make new ones. It became routine. There were days when he would be in the middle of a slump and slack off, feeling less inspired and more unmotivated. The effect it had on him lasted for months that he had lost a sum of money wasting them on beer cases and bags of chips he leaves open until they expire.

Perhaps, he was busy just trying to exist.

"Now, what was it that you wanted to discuss?"

Wonwoo takes a deep breath, stealing a moment to glance at Minghao’s questioning face before he begins talking.

"There's a sculpture I wanted to replace in my collection."

Minghao blinks. “Okay,” The tone of his voice asks suspiciously, “We don’t really mind you doing that if you think it’s necessary, as long as we would still be able to see them once you’ve sent in your submission for our exhibitors screening.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about… I need an extension.”

The smile that had been on the owner’s face had quickly turned upside down. “I don’t understand. Do you mean you won’t let us screen your work?”

“It’s not like that,” he defends, “You’d still be able to see it once the exhibit opens.”

“Wonwoo, you do know that in order to see if the art that is submitted to us is appropriate for the upcoming fair, we would need to take a look at everyone’s work ahead of time, don’t you? It’s always been mandatory and part of our standard policy. We don’t make exceptions.”

“Can’t I have at least another two weeks before the event?” Wonwoo asks, eyes pleading in front of the organizer.

“Why would you need to replace one of your art pieces anyway?” Minghao asks carelessly, “Did you break it again?”

At this point, Wonwoo does not know what to tell him, or how to tell him that something that the tale of a greek myth was living inside his house at this very moment.

Minghao seems to take the silence as a yes.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “As much as I’d like to help, I can’t give you that much time. It would be unfair to other everyone else who’d put as much effort in the art pieces as you have. We can’t be that reckless again, now can we?”

Wonwoo’s mouth goes slack. There are no words, only the feeling of distraught and humiliation quickly washing over his face. “Right,” he forcibly smiles, “I’ll find a way then… to make it on time.”

"Looking forward to it." Minghao stands then, leaving a hard pat on his back and another grin.

"It's nice to finally see you again, pal, but I've got to work soon. In the meantime, why don't you go around and uh, find yourself some inspiration."

He walks away, leaving Wonwoo surrounded by art and under a grey cloud on his head.

 

 

The door opens as Wonwoo heaves a sigh, stepping inside his house. He feels exhausted and tired, head aching from overthinking, from failing all too quickly. He passes the corridor before inspecting the couch to see if the human sculpture is still there, but finds that he isn’t. The silence had always been the same, yet the presence of the other is easy to identify, especially when a moment later he hears footsteps through the ceiling above him, eyes distracted by the evidence of his white robe lying on the floor near the couch. _Shit_. Maybe he should tighten the knot when he puts it on him.

Wonwoo takes the robe with him as he climbs up the stairs. Once he reaches the top, he meets the open doorway of his bedroom with the faintest of sound coming from inside. Curious, he boldly stalks the bedroom, but once again fails to see anyone in sight. It’s only then that the sound becomes much closer, one that had been from his bathroom and resembles the sound of water running from a faucet.

It is precisely that, and adding to the picture is the sculpted body inside the bathtub, his cocoa skin complimenting the clean and light interior of his bathroom.

Wonwoo stares down at him standing by the bathroom door, frozen in place. Two more steps forward and he would be able to see everything—the way the sculpture’s bare skin basks in the afternoon sunlight from the window, the way his knees fold in front of his body, and the movement of his arms as they rest lightly on top of them. He thinks it’s all sorts of strange and amazing how quickly the sculpture had learned how to reach this part of the house, when not long ago he couldn’t even stand straight. He’d even managed to use the faucet.

Water fills less than half of the tub by the time Wonwoo reaches the sculpture’s line of sight. His eyes shoot up in alarm, surprise coloring his irises. His hands cling to the tub’s edge, pushing himself up on his wobbly feet as drops of water drip from the lower part of his body. In all unpreparedness, he moves too quickly, with one leg already stepping out of the tub just as the other lifts up.

Wonwoo doesn’t expect to see him suddenly slip when his feet slide across the tiled floor. He moves immediately towards him as his heart drops, so much that he’d thought he heard the sound of cracked marble the moment it happened.

They return to the living room a few minutes later, with the sculpture dressed back into his white robe on the couch while Wonwoo sits cross-legged on the floor across him, pushing ice over the tiny bruise on his knee before adding pressure to the thin bleeding cut on his head with a cloth. The wounds are not of the extreme, but Wonwoo feels the need to aid them somehow, at least clean them so no infection comes. _Was that even possible for a sculpture?_ He’s not quite sure. There is not an ounce of pain written on the sculpture’s face, just a scar above his right eyebrow that proves him to be human.

“What am I going to do with you?” Wonwoo whispers lowly in thought. His shoulders drop to his sides from the strain on his arms, gazing confusedly as the sculpture blankly stares back down at him.

Looking at things right now, he seems to be at a lost cause. With the things that are happening to him, there is no one else to blame, not even the sculpture who’d been unintentedly brought to life.

There is no one to blame except his carelessness, from wanting so much of the world yet achieving nothing in return.

The question of not knowing what to do still remains. Days continue to quickly run out until the art exhibit, but only more questions come to mind such as why was the sculpture here and what was his purpose? Other are the possibilities of what could happen to the sculpture or whether he would stay in human form from now on?

There might be time to create new art, but not enough for Wonwoo to create something as whole as a human sculpture. Despite these intruding thoughts, he decides the only thing he could do is to wait, to see what will happen in the upcoming days. It’s not like there was any other option. For now, time is the only answer. The line between the impossible and possible has become very thin, and the sculpture borders right in the middle as the reflection of his dreams, looking down at him ever so slowly.

 

 

A new day greets Wonwoo with sunbeam kisses waking him in the morning. Everything feels like a dream, he thinks dazedly. He’s lost track of the hours, not remembering what he had been doing or what had been on his mind before falling asleep, but he finds it impossible to forget the unfathomed darkness that once again tries to consume his thoughts.

When reality finally sets in, he lifts himself off the bed, striding unhurriedly towards the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth as routine casually takes over his system.

Twenty minutes into the morning is when Wonwoo makes it down the first floor of his residence. As soon as his feet land on the last step and he glances forward, he flinches—breath quickly catching in his throat—recovering only when he'd realized that the human sculpture had been sitting on the couch. He takes in the sculpture’s straight posture, hands resting on both knees as his eyes dart toward him with recognition written all over them. Clearly, this is not a dream. He remembers now, especially how the sculpture had been in the same position he'd last seen him.

He keeps this simple information—that statues don't actually need to sleep, even when they're human. Wonwoo looks through the sculpture’s anatomical traits. His form is a manifest of lean muscles, divided into his body in equal proportions and is covered by his white robe. His cocoa skin is smooth and delicate than from when he first helped him at the garden. His arm had felt firmer then, rougher. Now, it is as if he would be a bit frightened to even lay a single finger on him. The sculpture’s face is youthful and seemingly illusionary, and no signs of fatigue or restlessness marred his clear eyes. The scar on his head was no longer there.

His eyes—however—surprisingly show many shades of emotion. They speak on their own, much like how they stare back at him in this moment, pupils dilating in deep wonder. It’s not the first time he’d seen this look. He's witnessed how the sculpture is able to understand and communicate with him in a way he never thought he would without being able to talk.

It is then that Wonwoo comes to realize that maybe the sculpture is just as lost as he was. He thinks he could be human, if not for the lack of something else—connection to the world and the people in it. But what else did he know about the world when he was created only to live in stone? How would he be able to find his connection?

 _He's got to blend in somehow_ , he thinks. There’s a certain hope that thinks maybe he would turn back into stone, and that he would be able to show him off to the world as his own creation.

But until he has things figured out, _until then_ , he would have to live like real people do.

 

Without notice, the hours that pass have turned into more of Wonwoo’s observations, giving him enough time to learn the things that are necessary to know about the art personified. For one, he discovers that the human sculpture's appetite lack just as much as his sleeping habits.

Wonwoo starts from there, cooking a meal for him one afternoon. He takes the sculpture to the kitchen where the round dining table stands and sets his dish down—spaghetti and meatballs in marinara sauce—right in front of him. He pulls another chair towards him, adjusting it so he sits next to him. The reaction he gets from the sculpture is a blank stare before looking up at him inquisitively.

"It's pasta," Wonwoo speaks as he lifts his utensils to twist the spaghetti with his fork and cut the end with a knife. He raises it close to the sculpture's lips, asking to "Try it." He gestures the sculpture to take the fork in his hand, but neither of his hands move. Confused, the sculpture continues to stare back at him. A quiet determination rests on Wonwoo’s face. He demonstrates this once more, only this time he takes the sculpture’s hand, bringing it into his own and guiding it as he closes his palm over the silver utensil.

The art's grip is loose—relaxed but not enough exertion. Pushing his limits, Wonwoo moves closer, leaning in as he uses his own hand to tighten the sculpture’s hold on the fork. Once the sculpture manages to get a firm grasp of the fork, he allows a bit of space for their hands to separate, just enough for his own grip to loosen before quickly returning to the sculpture’s cold fist to guide him.

Hands held together, they raise the fork, drawing it near Wonwoo’s face. His lips part, opening as the sculpture watches the strip of pasta land on his tongue and his mouth close over the fork. He chews slowly, and savors the taste of the first proper meal he's had in a while. It takes a millisecond for him to realize that their faces are at a noticeably close proximity. At the corner of his eye, he can see the sculpture staring, eyes perplexed in unfamiliar bewilderment as the fork leaves his mouth and his own hand leaves his wobbly ones.

Wonwoo pulls back to see his face and is met with a look of innocence. It wasn't the kind that was much of a child's, but one that is full of wonder, overwhelmed by interaction. It's these small spurts of expression from the human-like art that unexpectedly bring a smile to the sculptor’s face.

The sculpture reacts then, his eyebrows suddenly raised when a tiny strand of spaghetti finds a way to slip out from Wonwoo’s mouth. He lays out a hand to catch it as it completely falls out, raising the strand of spaghetti between him and the sculpture and hanging by his two fingers.

Just as Wonwoo brings it to his lips once more, the sculpture snatches it away from his hand, head tilted and mouth wide to swallow the strand of pasta. The sculptor's mouth hangs open, not knowing whether his actions were an act of imitation or exploration. The sculpture stares blankly, but his eyes are silently brooding.

Whatever the case, he must think it's delicious.

 

There are long quiet moments when the art would spend his time on Wonwoo’s couch. When Wonwoo is in front of his laptop finishing a few freelance graphic design jobs, the art would sit like a statue, motionless inside his house as though he was put up for decoration. Other moments, he is like a robot that walks aimlessly around the house. He wanders around with no direction but explores the different corners of his four walls. Wonwoo does not mind this, except he doesn’t always stay dressed in his white robe. He seems to prefer leaving nothing to the imagination.

A week later he finds him outside through the kitchen’s back door, staring at the view of his garden. He doesn’t understand it; there is only grass—lots of it—surrounding the lot of his house. The scenery is nothing new or exciting, but the sculpture is looking for something, gazing far, far ahead of him. Wonwoo watches him, thinking how there is not much he knows about this world, only perhaps that he is alive in it. He wonders how that must be like—Is it like _floating, being suspended in the air? Is it like standing over the edge a cliff_?

Wonwoo wonders a lot about the human sculpture, and what it feels like just to be alive.

Standing right in the middle of the garden is his art studio, and that’s when it hits him—The sculpture is staring curiously at it with an eagerness in his eyes, waiting to know more about it.

They step inside the quiet studio, welcomed by the scent of paint splattered on every corner of the medium sized shack. The studio is empty but highlighted with dashes of color. His table is pulled to one side and put to rest, along with a set of blank canvasses that sit against the wooden walls, while another side occupies a drawer of paint tubes, brushes and other materials. At the center is his main working space, the same space where they are currently standing in.

“This,” Wonwoo explains, “is where the magic happens, at least some of it anyway.”

Beside the sculptor is his creation smiling candidly, taking in the exact place where his soul had manifested. He takes light steps forward, trailing the red and blue hues that paint the floor. He draws around the faded brush strokes with his bare foot to mark his interest. Unknowingly, it makes the sculptor smile a bit.

Inside the studio, Wonwoo has always felt significant. A place of refuge and escape is how he would call it. The only space that permits him to be anyone, anything, is here with his art.

And today, there is nothing else, except the sculpture’s bright smile.

“This,” He speaks again, pointing to him, “is where I created you.”

He’s beaming now. The art seems to understand him, his smile deepening just as his eyes form the clear shape of crescent moons shining beneath the afternoon sun.

And this—the way Wonwoo’s heart frantically skips a beat—is something that he doesn’t comprehend all that well.

 

 

In silent discovery, the art learns that the way Wonwoo’s world revolves is quite different. The next afternoon they step inside his studio, the sculptor pulls an easel stand and two stools into his main space, arranging them side by side in front of a large sketch pad. He doesn’t care what he makes, but decidedly he thinks he’s going to accomplish something today. He _needs_ to. Wonwoo sets his paintbrushes down on the easel stand holder, then takes a pencil in his hand. His head quickly turns to see the sculpture next to him, staring at the shape of his head and tracing the lines on his face, right before his eyes roam down his broad shoulder and hands swaying on both sides of his lean sculpted body. For a moment, he questions himself. _Just how possible was it to create another sculpture such as the one in front of him?_

Wonwoo will soon find out. With a pencil in his hand, he starts to draw thin invisible-like lines on the pad. He sketches with the likeness of his human sculpture in his head, the same one that stares down at the way his hand moves, intrigued. He traces over the said lines, darkening his pencil strokes once the drawing takes into form. Words become less while the artist sketches, conveyed through the sketchpad instead. It’s the littlest of details that should be given the utmost importance, like the sharpness of his jaw and the ripeness of his lips. He finishes off by drawing the vulnerability in his eyes, the memory of his pupils dilating and staring into his own flowing through his hand and to his pencil.

Now that Wonwoo has a reference to create his model, this is when it gets to the exciting part—the painting. He shows the sculpture his brushes, leaving the pencil down to take one from his set of supplies and dipping it gently on a glass of water. The sculpture continues to watch with earnest eyes as Wonwoo dips his brush on the watercolor palette on his side. From there, he uses a tray to mix the primary shades of blue, red and yellow together to make a warm brown blend that matches perfectly to his tan skin.

Wonwoo dives into the sketchpad and begins to paint, filling in as much color from the sketched muscles and all the way up to the drawn face. His hand goes back and forth between the palette and his sketch pad, formulating darker shades to build the drawing’s dimension and shadows. Somewhere along his painting he gets lost; he forgets that the person he is creating is the human sculpture right next to him, lost as well from the way his sculptor’s hand works diligently over the body inside the sketch pad.

It’s an hour later when the sun shines its last light from the glass roof. Wonwoo pulls away to rest and his shoulders drop with a mild cramp shooting up his arm. He takes a moment to stretch his legs in his seat, face drinking in the bright sun before looking back at his sketchpad. The result is an overall painting of three studies, the same person sketched with his front and side angles. The smile on the artist’s face is pleasant, knowing that he’d done something productive and had taken a step closer to the dream. At the corner of his eye, he can see his sculpture staring down at his drawings.

He meets his eyes, pupils dilated and mouth slightly agape.

“Do you like it?” Wonwoo asks as he points to his sketchpad. An earthy fusion of browns and beige embody the drawings. They seem to look just as real as the human sculpture. Meanwhile, the said sculpture can only focus on him now, eyes staring deep in continuous discovery before they transfer to his paint-stained hand.

He notices.

“It does get a bit messy,” he grins sheepishly, “I don’t mind. I guess this is one way of telling people that I work hard for things I yearn for.”

In the middle of talking, the sculpture’s hand slowly reaches for his own, hesitantly at first, before fully taking it into his and feeling the rough callouses of his fingers.

Wonwoo does not show it, but it sends a surprised jolt to his system, nerves awakening. He looks up and sees the sculpture smile at the painting before his eyes return to his, thanking him in the only way he knows how with his touch—present and very much alive.

 

 

Screening season is fast approaching. As Wonwoo chases his deadline, a thirst for inspiration strikes. In just the tight span of two weeks, the sculptor had started working day and graveyard shifts again, the sun and moon as his witness. Among the skies is also the sculpture that continues to become good and quiet company, still learning the ways to be human day by day. Eating was still a foreign concept, but in the hours when Wonwoo would prepare their meal and have his share, the sculpture would join him on the table and watch him sink his teeth into anything edible. He makes time to teach him how to shower, but ends up chasing his bare body down the stairs and forcing him inside the bathtub. The tub is filled halfway with water while Wonwoo demonstrates scrubbing his skin with soap, wiping him clean. It was safe to say that he knew his body well; He created it with his own hands, that he had never felt a sense of restraint to touch him.

The truth of the matter is simple—the way his skin felt under the touch of his fingers was familiar, natural.

Wonwoo sneaks a glance at the new painting hung on the whiteboard as reference before beginning to create his armature. He starts small, using a wire to form the miniature art's structure. The wire should be dealt with utmost care, as such material is too delicate. Just like the human sculpture’s bones, the wire works as a skeleton, twisting and bending under the sculptor’s full command. By the force of his hands, he tests its limbs and folds them together in the same manner he’d imagined the human sculpture would maneuver his legs to sit. The twist of the arms and the bend of the knees is what Wonwoo does to the wire. The twists and bends, he imagines, is what his sculpture would do. For a second, he recalls a dream not too long ago where he is a puppeteer with a puppet, manipulating his object into believing that he is ‘alive’.

Inspiration finally strikes midday, when Wonwoo catches the human sculpture gazing out the window. He takes him outside for the first time, walking along the sidewalk to breathe in a part of the world he missed out on. They find themselves stumbling inside nearby art galleries, travelling together with the different art pieces on display.

Some would say art is an imitation of life. Wonwoo—among other millions of people—thinks that art is life. It's in the way people smile or the way people dress. It's every emotion or every moment that adds color to a person's life.

Inside the art gallery, his sculpture has wandered off somewhere and goes missing, camouflaging with other people but leaves him with a reminiscent memory of the first time they'd met. He surveys the room, scanning the onlookers that file together to admire the paintings before walking around to search for his sculpture.

What he finds is a set of four abstract paintings positioned right at the corner, two frames of each art piece hung on both sides of the wall.

 

24" x 30" in

Acrylic on Canvas

Anonymous

**Cloud Beam**

2010

 

The painting composes of healthy orange hue combinations—light and dark tangerine mixed together.

In front of the scenic art is his own, his rich caramel skin blending against the landscape's fiery colors, burning like the sun. The longer he stares into the gleaming eyes of his creation, Wonwoo thinks this is where he belongs, among the paintings hanging above the creme colored walls and among the other statues situated along the other forms of art.

In one fleeting moment, an ache rises in his chest, knowing that Wonwoo can only stare in longing as the sculpture’s smile takes his breath away.

 

 

“You’ve managed to finally come out of from the dungeon.”

Wonwoo meets Soonyoung by the pool of his house, sitting on the beach seat next to his and handing him a beer.

“I go out,” Wonwoo corrects him.

Soonyoung chugs on his bottle before he speaks.

“No, you don’t. You’re always in that cave you call your studio, hibernating like some I-don’t-know-what-type-of-animal anymore. It’s been two weeks since you’ve gone outside, haven’t you noticed? It’s a miracle that you even accepted my invitation tonight for beer.”

“But I was out just a while ago,” He answers, swallowing a portion of his drink, “looking for inspiration.”

“What’s wrong? Is your sculpture not enough?”

“I took him with me.”

“Oh… Like a date?” Soonyoung wiggles his eyebrows.

“It’s not like that,” he emphasizes.

“You seem pretty invested anyway,” his neighbor comments, “He lives inside your house when you can lock him inside your storage room, with your other pieces of art. You take care of him, cook food for him when he doesn’t eat. You give him a fucking shower. I’m surprised you haven’t slept with him yet.”

“He doesn’t sleep either.”

“Not the kind of _sleep_ I meant,” he reiterates, “But the point is that I get it. You made him. Go catch those feelings, or whatever.”

Wonwoo frowns at him.

“I’m not supposed to have feelings for him.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not real.”

“He’s not _real_?” Soonyoung repeats, sarcasm on his tongue. Wonwoo takes another sip.

“It’s just like you said, Soon,” he answers, “I made him up. He’s a product of my imagination!”

Soonyoung only nods. “I see.”

“It’s magic," he blames, "It’s _fucking magic_ messing with my brain, that’s what it is. It's fucking nuts. He behaves so unpredictably too.”

“How unpredictable?”

“He does things… like he has a mind of his own…”

“Uh, yeah, that’s definitely a human for you, Wonwoo.”

“What if this is all just a dream?” Wonwoo asks, “Do you think I’ll finally wake up and he’ll turn back to stone?”

“Is that what you want?” he counters, “For him to turn back so you can complete your art?”

Wonwoo loses confidence in his words. He finishes his beer and kicks his feet in the air, lying against the seat as his hands fall to his face. Soonyoung lays his bottle on the ground before sitting back against his own chair, enlightening him.

“First of all, you need to stop being a control freak. A person is much more complicated than what you created him to be. Second, you’re afraid. You’re scared of the person he’s becoming, because you’ve already fallen in love with your perfect idea of him. And when you start to fall for his flaws, you’ll be in too deep and you won’t know what the hell is going to happen to him.”

Wonwoo stays defenseless in his seat as Soonyoung hits all the hard truths.

“Things might seem temporary at the moment, but you don’t need to control it. He needs to live, Wonwoo. As much as you should if I may add. Live in the uncertainty. You’re alive, so why not act like it?”

 

Time passes evidently in the same way that Wonwoo notices the details that change about his human sculpture. One day, a pimple appears small and imperfect on his face while freckles bloom on his skin. Another day, he sees hair grow in places that didn't before, like the ones that rise along his arms when the air turns cold. As he moves freely around his house with an all-graceful finesse, more and more does Wonwoo’s work of art seem human.

However, his own miniature sculpture remains alone inside the studio, with cheap clay muscles that fill the armature’s form, inanimate when he touches it.

Night falls outside when their legs collide clumsily together on the couch. It feels like months since Wonwoo has switched the television on. When he does, the TV is set to a random channel that streams the latest dance recitals. One of what they come across is a modern ballet play. It tells the story of an inventor that creates a human-sized mechanical doll, winding her up to life. Together, they dance to abstract ballet, alternating between allégro combinations of grand jetés and assemblés, all to the tune of a Michael Jackson piece.

 

_Get me out, into the nighttime, four walls won't hold me tonight,_

_If this town is just an apple, then let me take a bite_

 

At the corner of Wonwoo’s eye, he knows the sculpture is entranced, curiosity by his side. He stares wide-eyed, captivated by the dancers’ refined and controlled techniques.

 

_If they say - Why? Why? Tell ‘em that it’s human nature,_

_Why? Why? Does he do me that way?_

 

The dancers perform an adagio, entwined with a cabriole. The sculpture follows with fingers dancing delightedly on the surface of the couch. Wonwoo watches his hand move to the duo’s choreography, along with the rhythm of the song in a way that art resembles life.

When Wonwoo goes to sleep that night, he dreams of ballet.

 

 

Wonwoo takes the human sculpture outside again. This time, they stand on a field of grass at a distant segment of the park, away from the rest of the town. There isn’t a reason as to why they are here, but the sculptor wants to get away for a while—from everything. Even under the clear proof that his sculpture is manifested into a human body, the sculptor stands in front of his creation—confused and wretched—wanting to believe that he is not just a piece of his art collection.

The wind blows when Wonwoo begins to move. His eyes perpetually close as he gets into the first position—arms relaxed and feet turned out. He transitions smoothly to the next position, raising his arms to almost shoulder height, opening and extending into an allongé, while his feet stretch out below him in sync to the music in his head. He elongates his arms, raising them until they are softly rounded for his last position.

And then he begins.

The sculpture watches as Wonwoo moves clumsily, awkward on his two left feet while his hands swing uncontrollably in the air like the swaying trees. He lets the wind control his body with eyes closed, mimicking last night’s dream—transforming into a danseur while the sculpture takes as his muse.

He performs for his sculpture, free from restraint as he lets go of all inhibitions.

It doesn’t take long before Wonwoo opens his eyes and catches the art following suit, moving along to the sculptor’s uncoordinated movements. His sculpture reveals to move elegantly on the field of grass like a body of limbs flexing without bones.

Under the heat of the sun, he does a pirouette and a tour en l’air.

He was beautiful, the sculptor thinks, in a way that was different. It wasn't the type of pretty that people would just look at. To Wonwoo, he was the kind of beautiful that made his blood run through his veins.

An old conversation with Soonyoung comes to mind. The human heart approximately beats eighty times per minute, and about four thousand times per hour. _You’re alive, so why not act like it?_

Like the dance of the inventor that winds his doll up to life, Wonwoo awakens his art to a pas de deux.

 

As soon as they arrive inside Wonwoo’s house, the sculptor’s mind turns hazy, stuck in the memory of their dancing. Wonwoo feels a little weird, but it’s the good kind of weird that leaves him floating on air, in such a strange high. He doesn’t feel entirely himself, he thinks. He becomes less in control of his body as he saunters into the living room.

He feels ridiculous and careless, but the way the human sculpture looks at him is striking. He smiles endearingly at him when he stares back, eyes glistening under the moon’s light when it shines down his face.

Even from a distance, he finds his eyes linger to the sculpture’s thin lips.

Whether it was because Wonwoo was in a daze or because of the way his heart stutters in his chest, he moves courageously forward, crossing the room in a speed that’s all too quick before his hand grabs the back of his neck, pulling him close to feel his kiss.

 

Dainty fingers press as light as a feather on his shoulder when he opens his eyes. Another morning has come, along with the patterns that his sculpture draws across his skin lying next to him in bed. It’s unusual and new. With the touch of his fingers, he traces his outline from his shoulder down to his arm—an allegro, a grand jete to the arabesque—sending forth a warmth to his body. For someone who dreads waking up in the morning, Wonwoo never thought he would have something to look forward to, like someone such as his art waiting for him.

They continue to lie in Wonwoo’s bed, saying nothing for a while but trapped inside their own little bubble, reflecting the same deep longing of affection in their eyes. For some reason, he thinks to himself, wondering if he'd gotten any sleep. He notices a single lash that falls below his right eye when he blinks slowly, wanting to brush it away with his thumb. Another is his sunshine smile, and the way his canine-like teeth peek from his mouth each time it curls. Wonwoo has never been this close to his flaws. He sees everything—the marks of imperfection—skin bare and rough on the edges. Despite them, he pays all the more attention to his art, realising that he was learning to appreciate the entirety of him.

And yet, as the many days have flown by, he can never seem to accept his own. The sculptor still has his battles, falling into the open cracks where his insecurity remains waiting for him. He can feel himself stumbling off the tracks, getting further and further away from the finish line. Anxiety seemingly comes from nowhere in the form of panic attacks. He forgets his appetite and grows sleepless. He would cave inside himself sometimes, hands freezing and unable to do anything else but allow the fear to consume him.

 

It happens again, one late afternoon when the sun peeks inside his studio and passes through the sunroof. There is only a week left until the event committee’s screening of art collections, but at this point, giving up feels like the only option Wonwoo has. He’s still down to one last sculpture, yet the molds of clay sloppily stick out from his miniature replica, unfinished.

Standing by the edge of his working table, Wonwoo makes a mess. He’s poured a heavy amount of paint onto the canvas spread out in front of him like a sheet of paper. Hands doused in color, they move with his paintbrush in a swirling motion, blending shades and mixing one to the next. The canvas becomes a concoction of pastel pigments resembling the gradience of sunsets, dashes of pinks and oranges coming together with the light touch of his brush and sinking down across the plain white space.

He doesn't know what it is, or what it’s for. He thought this would keep him productive. He thought he was doing well, but he's stuck, and his life feels like the painted swirls, going round and round in circles that will never end. He's kept his emotions controlled all this time, bottled up inside him as though he's locked inside a tiny box. Wonwoo just wants to be great again, prove people wrong and get his life together. The least he wants to feel is useless. But even like this, inside his own art studio, his existence starts to lose its meaning.

The pressure builds up, and something inside him finally breaks; his hands thrash angrily across the table to send everything in its way falling to the floor, creating a fury of noise. Buckets of paint topple over and stain the wood on his feet, colors spreading like wildfire as fragments of his molded art lie still and disfigured. He bends on his knees to pick up one of the broken pieces from his lifeless miniature with paint dripping from it. He squeezes it into his fist before throwing it back to the ground. Hands on his face, the past comes back to him in dark memories.

Wonwoo makes a mess again, but the bigger mess—he realizes—is the sculptor himself.

The human sculpture appears by his side, knees bent next to his own and hands flat on the paint-stained wood. He tilts his head to find his eyes, searching them, absorbing the pain and his exhaustion marred across them. The sculptor’s hands—cold and trembling—are replaced by his creation’s gentle, warmer ones. Wonwoo finds solace in his warmth, in the kindness of his eyes that reflect the same uncertainty of the future.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

The human sculpture looks back. He knows this feeling, somehow, can feel it under his hands as they caress his face, a faint pink dusting along his cheeks. His hands are as warm as his pulse that keeps him alive. Wonwoo’s heart beats quickly—faster when the sculpture moves, eyes still searching for the lonely soul who’d made him.

For the first time, he hears him in an almost whisper, a practiced speech tumbling from the tip of his tongue.

“Beautiful.”

Wonwoo knows he’s heard him say it a handful a times—once, when his sculpture had tried to paint his face. He showed it to him as a present, now hung up along with his other sketches. Another time was at the one of the art galleries, looking at the different forms of art. He has always wondered how everyone saw his art, but every so often when his eyes would meet with the sculpture’s, he would stare at him with a flash of something unfathomable, in admiration and a gleam he cannot fully decipher.

The things it did to his brain and things it made him feel, however, had been clear from the very beginning. It was something unwelcomed, hidden, even until this very day. And yet, _something_ still sparks inside him, knowing that his own creation had thought he was important, that had always looked at him like he was art.

Wonwoo’s hand is cold as they brush the back of his sculpture’s neck, a blemish of orange staining his skin from the touch of his fingers. He tries to search for any hint of restraint from the sculpture’s eyes but his head only draws closer and closer, until they share a single breath. The first time they had kissed, it had been an act of impulse, unsure of itself and the implications it would bring. The next time had been on Wonwoo’s bed, a little more encouraging but hasty in its approach. It’s the sculpture that leans in, kissing the corner of his mouth and pressing his lips there tentatively, experimenting. It’s enough for the sculptor to lose his breath and crave for more.

It’s that same moment when Wonwoo knows for certain that he wants to kiss him. He takes his sweet time, maintaining eye contact, before their lips meet once again. His lips are the way he imagined them to be—soft and plush—different than before. He doesn’t remember how the sculpture’s sticky fingers have threaded through his dark hair, or how one of his hands have lingered down from his arm down to his waist, but he pulls him into his lap as legs wrap around him, deepening their kiss.

When they pull away to give each other a moment to breathe, Wonwoo feels the intensity of the sculpture’s gaze—warm and intimate. His pulse is just as fast as his own against his fingers at the back of his neck. He removes his grip to swipe a smudge of color to the sculpture’s bottom lip with his thumb, gently sinking his teeth there before planting a chaste kiss. Paint tastes honestly disgusting, but he cares less when he continues to press his lips insistently against his, exploring the taste of his mouth while the sculpture curls his hands into fists in his hair as response.

They break free from the kiss for Wonwoo to trail more of them to his neck, painting his skin and feeling his pulse against his lips while the sculpture takes long and deep breaths. He undresses him, tugging the robe’s tie before shedding it off of his shoulders so it falls in a thump on the floor next to them. The sculpture watches in amazement as he pulls his own shirt off—sliding it over his head to leave it beside his robe. He watches his eyes and how they stare at openly at him, body exposed to witness its plain nakedness. He was examining him in the way he always had, that it sends a stirring to his gut and a flame to his heart.

To his surprise, the sculpture manages to pull away from his lap. His hands rest on top of Wonwoo’s shoulders, pushing down to lay him gently on the wooden floor as the sculpture hovers above him and his back hits the paint-splattered surface.

As if time has stopped, the sculpture’s gaze is soft, looking back at him with adoring eyes and taking the opportunity to appreciate the sight of his creator. At the back of Wonwoo’s mind, he wishes that time does stop.

He starts slowly—leaving a light peck to the sculptor's lips before his own moves along the column of his neck. He pays attention to each inch of his body, hands traveling across skin—discovering unfamiliar territory—before showering him with meaningful kisses. Wonwoo was burning, _burning_ in his touch as his art leaves blotches of paint to the canvas of his body.

The sensation he creates sends Wonwoo’s world spinning. He could only hold the sculpture tight; dirtied hands crawling up and along the plane of his back, moist from the mix of paint and sweat. He hopes and prays that this fleeting moment wouldn’t end so fast. Perhaps, maybe never end at all.

It doesn't take long before the sculpture continues to move down his body, hands tracing the lines on his skin, only making sure not to leave any part untouched by his painted lips.

The art learns so fast, and knows exactly where to touch. Wonwoo watches the sculpture’s hands reach his most sensitive place, sliding inside his jeans to explore the warmth of his pulsated flesh, wrapping delicate fingers around it.

Wonwoo has never felt so cherished, so appreciated. But his art is devoted—generous. The art gives so willingly without anything in return. He is giving in the way he touches him, and it shows. The sculpture gives completely, selflessly, in the way that he takes all of Wonwoo into his mouth, breathing him in like silent whispers of gratitude.

He is thankful of him. He lies between the sculptor’s legs that are spread wide to accommodate him, hugging his hips. It’s maddening and gratifying, that a soft gasp quickly escapes the sculptor, hands gripped tight to the sculpture’s hair as he surrenders to the waves of pleasure that overwhelm his being. His heart rate climbs, eyes rolling back as his mind is gone and buried in desire, weak by the touch of his sculpture’s scalding lips that leave him breathless. It’s treacherous, but Wonwoo wants more. He has always wanted more even if he knows he may never have it.

The art is so good and so dangerous, especially when he drives him so close to the edge. The moment their eyes meet, a glimmer of affection flashes across them. It is then that he begins to see his reflection, the human sculpture imitating life.

The things shown to Wonwoo are the things he’d meant to show his art—to live and not only exist, to paint a pretty picture of the world and believe in its beauty despite its imperfections, to love immensely, unconditionally.

This, is what he wanted for his art all along—to connect. This is what makes his creation’s soul.

A moment comes when the world spins again, but it’s Wonwoo who creates the shift and towers over the sculpture. Just like this—with the art's vulnerable body under him—is how he remembers the way he was built, relearning each thread and each piece of passion that had molded him together. He kisses him senseless, indulges himself in the taste of the art’s copper lips. He thinks he'll never have enough of it, of his art. Wonwoo’s stained fingers dive into his art, exploring the curves of his form and the cuts of his arms, venturing through the expanse of his body. The sculptor’s touch awakens his pleasure, hands gliding through his torso in lithe brush-like strokes.

A dash of yellow spring from his fingertips meets the autumn canvas of his body as though he was painting the sun on his skin.

As his hands continue to run down a path along his ribs to the hipbones, human instinct runs its course. Their bodies naturally find their way to fit along each other in a concoction of pale and tan skin, blending into warm colors of intimacy. The sculpture allows him to be so close to him, _so close_ , that they crash into each other, inevitably.

Wonwoo observes every detail, like the hard knuckles of the sculpture’s hands, hands in which become eager for someone to hold like the ones that grip more incessantly on his forearms in a cry of not wanting to let go. His legs are strong and graceful when he dances, now entangled in his own on the wooden floor. Below them are his bony ankles, tendons stretching delightedly beneath his fingers when he touches his taut skin. It’s details as simple as this that he holds onto.

When the sculpture opens his mouth in a gasp, Wonwoo loses all rationality. He lets his weight fall into the sculpture as a sheer layer of sweat combines with the paint smeared on their skin. His hands move frantically, deliberately as they drift between his legs. The sculpture quivers below him, overwhelmed by the contact when Wonwoo coats him deep inside with his finger, wet paint easing the slip as his body accepts him. He earns a whimper, the sound escaping from the sculpture’s trembling lips. He watches his body react to each motion laced with intention, each finger sliding inside him. He responds—angling his hips forward, his hard flesh grinding against the sculpture’s bare arousal as his fingers fill him with color. There’s still so much Wonwoo wants to learn about the human sculpture.

Wonwoo catches the echoed desire on the sculpture’s face—teeth biting into supple lips, half-lidded eyes darkening with a gaze that sends a chill down his spine. The need for normalcy fades more and more, turning into just one lingering moment of insanity.

A sound—low and delicious—reaches Wonwoo’s ears when his fingers brush against a new spot, shoulders shuddering with the sudden shock of pleasure. The sculpture kisses him fervently, rolling his hips into his hand that continues to bend inside him. He watches his jaw go slack while he works him up, his breathing shallow. Desperation breaks through, one that reflects in the sculpture’s eyes and in his own. Wonwoo withdraws his fingers only to spread his legs further. He touches himself, coats his own heated flesh with yellow before sliding in.

Wonwoo sees it all—the way his body accepts him with the slightest resistance, his eyebrows pulled tight into a knit in a match of discomfort and pleasure, chest heaving and eyes falling shut as his breathing regulates.

The human sculpture was truly beautiful like this. He just wants to keep looking at his art, wants to take all of him in like all his details. The sculpture's hands trace along his neck and across his shoulders, feels the way it shakes from too many nerves, from too much exhilaration.

So one more time, their lips meet, pulling each other close as their hips roll with purpose. Wonwoo swallows the small moans that slip from the sculpture's lips while his hands smoothens along his back and winds through his hair.

His pace quickens, drowning out all sound, all existing matter except the sculpture that clouds his faded thoughts. He can't think of anything else but the warmth inside him and the weight of their bodies against each other.

They create a steady rhythm—a movement of symmetry. The art unravels beautifully underneath his creator. Wonwoo sees the sculpture’s yellow blemishes, watches the color dissolve into his cocoa skin as it glistens under the sun's light from the glass roof. Together, they become perfect and golden, basking in the sunset and pastel skies above them, painting their love in embers. It won't be long now, until he feels the sculpture clench around him and they come undone.

Wonwoo reaches between his legs and takes him in his hand, stroking him in a speed that matches his thrusts. As the rhythm continues, he places another hand above his chest, right above his beating heart.

The art's eyes never leave his own, staring up at him in a look of both nervousness and contentment.

Wonwoo finds that it's the complexity of his emotions that makes the sculpture all the more human. It makes him all the more _real_.

_Please be real. Please be real. Please be real._

"Please be real," Wonwoo moans. He repeats the words like a memory in his head, escaping him through hard breaths and pleading whispers, punctuated in each cant of his hips as he thrusts deep inside the sculpture.

It takes a few more motions before the release—the sculpture whining deep in his throat before their bodies shudder, one before the other. The minutes linger on as they come down from the high, liquid pooling between their legs and leaking out in warm colors. Wonwoo finally collapses next to the sculpture's exhausted body.

Their togetherness seems natural, that the only strength that remains in Wonwoo is used to trace his hand on the sculpture's naked shoulder. The sculpture leans into his touch, smiling with satiated eyes while his own hands weave through the sculptor's dark locks, moving closer to his body.

They remain bare, lying together on the stained wooden floor of Wonwoo’s studio as he holds the art in his arms, contented right where he is. He wants to stay awake, wants to cherish this moment even more, but there's something about the quiet air and the sculpture's final kiss that lulls him to sleep, taking him back to the middle of dreams and consciousness where everything began.

 

The next time he opens his eyes, it’s darkness that he meets. The night has long fallen outside the sculptor’s studio, but Wonwoo only starts to notice the cold air that seeps through the tiny gap of the window and the change of atmosphere that has turned oddly silent. His skin is dry, body still saturated in paint that sticks to his body. He shivers. He takes the white robe from the floor and drapes it over his shoulders to cover up, eyes trailing to the floor. He discovers the apparent lack of color—the mess that had previously been there wiped out.

Things don’t quite feel the way it’s supposed to be—half nostalgic and half strange—but Wonwoo doesn’t need to look far for uneasy thoughts to appear. Just as he looks up, he finds what he’s looking for.

Wonwoo does not speak, nor does he shed tears about a goodbye that had never been given. No words or theories can explain the absence, or how his shadow left as sudden as it arrived. There is only a tremendous amount of emptiness, with half of his heart gone in order to complete the missing piece of his art.

Because the human sculpture—golden and prepossessing—stands as a masterpiece in front of his sculptor, beautifully carved in stone the way he created him.

 

 

  **EPILOGUE:**

 

**HEART IN THE PARK 2018**

**Hongik University | September 8 | 10AM**

 

 

**ARTICLE: HEART IN THE PARK 2018:  "DEFINITELY A WORK OF HEART"**

by Hong Jisoo (newsen.com.kr) | September 1, 2018

 

This year, the fundraising event will feature a diverse range of artists, 20 galleries, and independent art collections with a variety of works to choose from.

Gallery owner, Xu Minghao, shares his excitement about the prestigious event. “Our goal has always been to make art as accessible and relatable to people and at the same time also pay tribute to the artists’ passion and dedication to their craft,” says Xu.

The event organizers look forward to seeing 10,000 visitors at the seventh year of HeArt in The Park.

 

 

The month had flown by without Wonwoo noticing. The broad of daylight is insufferable in the afternoon, but the art spaces are positioned under a tent by the street. As soon as the event had begun, his onlookers had arrived in large batches. The visitors—local and foreign—flee inside his tent in warm elated gasps as they stand by the art pieces, congratulating him with enthralled eyes.

As the afternoon comes, Soonyoung pays his friend a visit. He’d learned about the disappearance, and has never mentioned anything about it until today.

“You did so well with him,” is all he says.

His eyes view the art laid in front of him—on the ground are his watercolor paintings placed in white elegant frames leaning back against the corner of his tent; on top of the table are mimics of Japanese _Kintsugi_ , broken ceramic vases mended by patches of sparkling gold sequins. The poles of his tent are decorated in pressed delicate flowers like vines, created with his hands.

Wonwoo lingers to the statue at the center of the tent, the art that has captivated most of his viewers.

 

Jeon Wonwoo

Acrylic on bronze sculpture

**Helios**

2018

 

Of all the art Wonwoo’s hands have touched, the best by far is him. Now that he’s gone, he sees him everywhere—outside his garden, inside his studio, in the things he’d created. But the art had been more than just the parts that he made. He had been sorry for each moment he tried to control him, for every time he wanted to change him.

His art’s soul was no longer his; his soul is free.

Wonwoo can only smile at the memory. Just as he quietly bends down to rearrange his paintings and Soonyoung excuses himself to walk around, another person makes his way over to his tent.

He continues to adjust the placements of the art pieces, unaware of the new visitor's entrance.

_"Beautiful."_

The sculptor looks up to see a man next to his sculpture, gazing at it in awe. The moment chocolate brown eyes meet his own, all so suddenly, he finds it hard to breathe.

"Oh, hi." The man is just as surprised when he sees him, words quickly flowing out of him when he speaks. "You must be the artist."

Wonwoo keeps staring as he walks over to him. The man is amazingly tall, firm muscles built on a lean framed body and covered in a grey knit sweater.

"That would be me." He agrees, words slowly leaving his mouth.

The man takes another glance at his sculpture before his eyes wander around the tent. His heart beats loud in his chest, confusion racing through him while excitement runs through his veins. The natural light gleams over his cocoa skin, a golden sun just like the sculpture before him.

"This is really amazing," The man tells him, eyes pointing towards the stone with a smile on his face, soft like the sculpture's curves.

"Thank you," Wonwoo answers, before adding," I'm... glad you like it."

"I really do. I don’t know, I… I think I feel connected to it."

When the man's gaze finally, _finally_ falls on him, he can't help but wonder…

"Have we met before?" Wonwoo asks unexpectedly.

"I don’t think so," he answers, looking dazedly at him, "Although, why does it seem like I have?"

It was a question not even Wonwoo has the answer to. His eyes are warm and sincere as they continue to stare into his. They remind him so much of his own art.

But the man introduces himself.

"I'm Mingyu." he offers, another smile upon his face.

"Wonwoo."

"Wait," he pauses, "Jeon Wonwoo."

"Yes."

"No wonder you're familiar," he says, "I saw you two years ago, at the art gala."

Wonwoo reacts to Mingyu’s words. "You remember that?"

"I’m surprised that I do, actually. I couldn’t recognize you now, only because you were so far the first time I saw you. I’ve learned quite well to admire art from a distance.”

Wonwoo wants to move, wants to do something, anything, but his feet remain glued to the ground. His heart runs at a ridiculous speed, words catching in his throat the moment he hears Mingyu speak.

“I’m sorry, that probably sounded weird,” Mingyu realizes, a faint rosy pink flushing his cheeks, “I guess what I’m trying to say is that i’ve been looking for you. There’s something i‘ve always wanted to ask.”

“Ask me anything,” Wonwoo tells him, almost like a challenge.

Mingyu is enthusiastic then, a look of wonder crossing his face when he asks, “What inspires you?”

Wonwoo can see it now—his work of art. He studies him, the shape of Mingyu and all his details, molded into the likeness of his sculpture.

“It’s complicated,” is all the sculptor says.

Wonwoo notices the way Mingyu’s light laughter fills the tent like a sweet melody that fills his ears. He even sees his pointy teeth.

“Complicated, huh?” Mingyu asks.

“Yes,” He tells him, smiling. “but I can show you.”

 

If there is one thing Wonwoo knows about magic, it’s this—to fall in love is one great act of magic.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you very much for reading ;; i love you all <3


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